


I Shouldn't Be So Into You

by Arrestzelle



Series: Rammstein Requests [16]
Category: Rammstein
Genre: Confessions, Drunken Kissing, Feeling B era, Flirting, Jealousy, M/M, POV First Person, Secret Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:40:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25948981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arrestzelle/pseuds/Arrestzelle
Summary: So, what if Paul and Flakearetogether in that way? A part of me wants to find out. But what would it mean if it were true? How would that affect me? Could I handle that?And as I continue to ponder this, the greatest question of all revisits my thoughts: why, of all people, am I crushing onFlake?Richard develops feelings of some kind for Flake, and isn't exactly sure how to approach it. But he figures it out, eventually, during one of Feeling B's typical parties.
Relationships: Richard Kruspe/Christian Lorenz | Flake, referenced Paul/Flake
Series: Rammstein Requests [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1523702
Comments: 24
Kudos: 29





	I Shouldn't Be So Into You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unstablegoat49](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unstablegoat49/gifts).



> This is a drabble request for @unstablegoat49 on Tumblr!! Hope you like it! I didn't intend for it to become nearly 7k words, but, well, it happened. And I enjoyed writing it. The prompt was originally "I shouldn't be in love with you", but I felt that was too strong in this setting, so I changed it slightly!

Enigmatic. Awkward. Blunt. Witty. Lazy. A joy to be around. Eager to fit in, sometimes intimidated to cross that gap. Struggling to be funny, feeling as if he falls flat but unaware of how charming his strange sense of humor really is. Quiet focus which shows dedication, and passion. A beautiful grin that lights up his face. Big ears, big eyes, bigger heart, and bad teeth that somehow look cute in their own way.

All of these things that I find captivating about that weird kid that is not truly a kid, as he is in his early twenties, but has yet to grow into it. Like Paul. Maybe that’s why they have such chemistry—they’re practically inseparable. Mentally kids, physically adults. Perhaps, that’s why they’re still living together. They mesh well. These adult-kids. It’s not like I’m any more mature. In fact, I’m probably worse.

I wonder what they’re up to right now… Stemming somewhere from jealousy, maybe. There has always been rumors among this small “community” that they’ve been an item for years now. I can understand why they’d be perceived that way. Flake always has this “giggliness” about him around Paul, and Paul is unashamed in his display of fondness, even if that fondness can be written off as masculine affection. During one of their wild parties, I had heard from some _guy_ —I still don’t know his name to this day—that he saw them kissing at… Where was it again? Some _place_ where _this_ fucking guy just happened to see them. I have my lack of belief, but even then, it burrowed into my head somewhere that maybe while this guy hadn’t seen it, it’s still possible it could be going on. After all, these rumors start for a reason, don’t they?

So, what if Paul and Flake _are_ together in that way? A part of me wants to find out. But what would it mean if it were true? How would that affect me? Could I handle that?

And as I continue to ponder this, the greatest question of all revisits my thoughts: why, of all people, am I crushing on _Flake?_ Is it his contentment with most things that attracts me? His unique personality, or his endearing awkwardness? The way he handles himself?

I always go back to that kiss we shared, a bit clumsily, hidden within the ill-lit bathroom in their flat. I was bordering on _stupidly_ drunk, and for once, Flake hadn’t beaten me to that finish line of acquiring liquid courage. We’ve been doing this awkward dance for a few weeks now, long after my attraction to this weirdo started. I’d unashamedly flirt with him to see his reaction, pass it off as a teasing joke whenever Flake stammered out a request for elaboration. Always something along the line of: _Wh—what are you t-talking about? You’re just messing with me, a-aren’t you?_

Flake never expressed disgust, even at my boldest moves which could even be classified as coming onto him. Just bashful confusion. A nervousness. That adorable blush, the way his cute lips would twist into a tight half-smile, half-frown.

Weeks of this, and then I had drunkenly called Flake into the bathroom to “help” my inebriated ass. This greatly amused the others who hollered about my inability to take a piss, and Flake mumbled out a _why me?_ as he rose and approached, horrid posture and all.

As soon as the lankier, quieter man slipped into the room and shut the door, I had pressed him against the wall and asked, with a blatant slur in my voice, if I could kiss him. I’m sure he found my repulsive beer breath wafting into his face charming. Flake had been too sober for it, I can see that now. He had been so shocked he said nothing, and he continued to say nothing even after he gripped my arms and nodded slightly, so slightly I barely caught it in my wasted state.

The way his eyes zeroed in on my face as I closed the distance, eyes nearly crossing, had me stupidly giggling before I kissed him. In hindsight, it could’ve gone better, but it also could’ve been much, much worse. Flake is a horrible kisser, basically, but he’s eager to be led. It was stiff, as if he didn’t know how to operate his lips, and his hands were frozen on my arms, while I touched his neck, his jaw, his head, stroking my hands everywhere I could. It was like kissing a statue—but a very cute, dorky statue. The flustered expression on his boyish face after we broke apart and his stuttering remark of _You didn’t really need my help, d—did you?_ had me grinning broadly. Then I shook my head, ran the back of my fingers against that cheek dusted with moles, and turned away to wash my hands in the sink. A way to give myself a breather, to maintain a cool demeanor despite my racing heart and shaking hands. He turned to leave once I showed him my back.

We haven’t talked about it since, but the look Flake gave me after we stopped kissing makes me wonder still. A weary yearning, almost. Like he wanted to say something, or do something, but the setting prevented him from doing that. The voices of the others carrying into that shitty bathroom silencing him.

I _want_ to talk about it. It hasn’t been that long. Nearly three weeks since then. I wonder if Flake has talked to _Paul_ about it.

Sitting by the window in my room, I distantly stare out and study the view as my cigarette dwindles to nothingness. I’m brought back to the present, dragged out of my thoughts, when I hear my name called. It’s Schneider. I put out my cigarette and get up.

In the kitchen, he’s holding out the phone. I approach, and take it from his hand.

“It’s Paul,” he says, flatly. And then Schneider turns back to the counter, where he, apparently, has been reading through the newspaper while keeping an eye on his cooking food. Bringing the phone to my ear, I say, “What’s up?”

“We’re about to leave,” Paul’s voice pipes up, soothing my restlessness, “We’ll meet you there?”

Finally. I had been waiting to hear confirmation for hours.

“Yeah, of course. Who’s all going again?”

The obvious manner of which I try to sound casual is painfully obvious.

“Flake,” Paul says with a smile in his voice, “And everyone else who you don’t care for.”

I swallow hard. I try to maintain a level, teasing tone of voice.

“Why would I care about them? You two are my _bestest_ friends.”

Paul laughs.

“Flake says hello. See you at the beach. We don’t have much food, so… Plan around that.”

“Got it. See you soon!”

“Yup.”

Then the line cuts. I stare down at the phone in my hand, face warm. Flake said hello.

* * *

At the beach, the sun is already beginning to set, bathing the sky in deep oranges and paralyzing purples. An astonishing sight, a beautiful one, honestly. I admire the mixture of colors as I trudge up towards the beach in my _aesthetically_ beaten up boots, wearing my best attempt at looking, well, attractive. Not that I know what _he_ finds attractive. I’m being pathetic, aren’t I? A desperate fool seeking something in a place where I won’t acquire it. The thought makes me a bit somber as I approach the assemblage of people, most of whom I recognize from that scene. A fire, small in its form, is circled by punks and outliers, somewhat close to the retreating line of the tide. As if it’s reaching for the fire, but can’t quite make it.

Laughter and loud conversation carries. About twenty people crammed around a fire, sharing drinks and cigarettes, with no one else in sight. Four women I recognize but can’t place names to are laying spread out atop a blanket, two of them topless. I’m surprised to discover Aljoscha is absent. I’ve never seen him pass on the opportunity to get totally wasted. Paul is playing with driftwood, yelling at the Baltic Sea daringly, as if it’s a living entity (which, truly, it may as well be). Flake, as easily spotted as he is at that height with his awkward posture, is drinking without limitation, the bottle pointed skyward. There’s that liquid courage.

A smile grows on my face seeing him, despite how out of place I feel. Like I’m waddling up in my nicest jeans with a bouquet in my hands, ready to ask Flake to a dance. I need to relax.

Flake lowers the bottle, scrubs his mouth off on his sleeve, and then leans down at the waist. He digs the bottle into the sand, and grabs a conveniently placed rock he discovers nearby. He calls out for Paul. They proceed to play baseball using the rock and the driftwood. Paul misses eight out of ten times considering how slowly he swings the heavy piece of wood, and then Flake starts aiming for his legs, because Flake is an asshole when he gets drunk. Yelling at him with laughter in his voice, Paul throws the driftwood at his general vicinity, and then runs for the sea. Flake follows, laughing loud enough that I can hear his (adorable) giggling, long legs easily catching up with the elder man. He grabs Paul by the shoulders, both of them stumbling into the receding tide, only for Paul to loudly squawk about stepping on a sharp seashell.

Jealousy grips around my chest tightly, like I’m being crushed. I hate how much it affects me. It’s not like they haven’t been these idiotic best friends for years. Fooling around in whatever nonsensical way they can. They live together, for fuck’s sake. Of course Flake would be that way with him. _And not me_. I shove away that irrational voice in my head, irritated at myself.

Reaching the group and the fire, I’m greeted by a few people. I smile and accept a beer, but I’m just waiting for Flake and Paul to come back from the water, for Flake to look at me. My hopeful expectations are absurd. I feel hot under the collar, and pathetic.

As if telepathic, the pair start running back from the water, and Paul calls out, “Hey, Richard! Help me teach Flake a lesson! He was trying to break my kneecaps with a rock!”

I awkwardly laugh, not quite sure what to say here. Flake is panting hard, leaning over to place his hands against his knees. Paul reaches out to push him a bit too hard on the shoulder. Flake, unprepared in his winded state, stumbles harshly to the side, losing his footing in the smooth sand, and lands on his hip and elbow with an annoyed cry of Paul’s name. Paul laughs and kicks sand onto Flake’s jean-clad legs. Flake is already too drunk, evidently: he’s struggling to regain stability and sit back up.

“Pipsqueak idiot!” Flake snaps at Paul, slurring a bit, who in turn sticks his tongue out at him. Wow. They really are children.

I know I have a tendency to be the mothering friend of the group—it was mostly instinct to step over and hold out a hand for him. Flake huffs and attempts to roll up onto his hips, but then splats back into the sand, helplessly losing the battle with gravity. That’s when he notices my hand. He looks up at me with wide, blue eyes and an open mouth that becomes a slight smile. He reaches out to take my hand. Heart fluttering, I hoist him up almost too easily—he’s so light! Flake springs up, but much too quickly. The momentum of this and the lack of control in those skinny legs has him tripping forward, _again_ , and landing right against me. I reflexively catch him and straighten him back up, hands gripping his biceps, ring and pinky fingers wrapped tight around the neck of my beer to avoid dropping it. I’m laughing anxiously while he’s stammering out a stuttered apology, flicking his eyes up to my face and then away to the sandy ground. He’s flustered. Cute.

“It’s not that hard to stand, right, Flake?!” I hear a voice call. Flake’s head is lowered, hand raised to scratch at the back of his ear. He then looks over, his expression becoming defensive and daring with his drunken state. Abruptly, he blurts twice as loud, “It’s not that hard to shut the hell up, right?!”

That earns Flake a silly grimace from the other man and a friendly middle finger. A slight smile cracks on my face, but now I’m slightly worried that Flake will only get worse as the night goes on. It wouldn’t be the first time. He gets defensive when he’s embarrassed, _when_ he’s drunk.

“Ay, ay, Flake,” Paul interjects, giggling, reaching out to grab Flake by the elbow, “Next time, just ask. I’m sure Richard would be happy to cradle you in his arms.”

Now it’s my turn to get embarrassed, while laughter breaks out. Flake brushes Paul off and says, “I’d rather hug the fire.”

Paul’s grin weakens and he rolls his eyes, before pointedly looking at me with a cocked brow. My throat is tight and I’m rendered speechless. Flake trudges over, arms swinging with exaggeration, to lean over at the waist and snatch up his bottle of whatever alcohol he chose to indulge in tonight. I take myself and my bottle of beer over to the people I know, who aren’t that pair of idiots. I drop down with a heaved exhale and shake my head. I’m spoken to, and an arm is draped around my shoulders, but I can’t hear it, and I can’t feel it. I reply but the words feel forced and dry in my mouth, the plastered smile ingenuine. Even as I’m distracting myself with other company, I think only of him, and the comment he made.

An hour comes and goes. Soon enough, Flake is spitting alcohol into the fire again—a common trick he enacts, if only to make people scatter and scream with laughter. While a tipsy Paul boasts to friends about his skill in finding the prettiest seashell, and provides evidence as they begin wading through the wet, compact sand to find prizes, Flake only gets drunker, and drunker. After some time of him attempting to engage in conversation with the group, though his jokes only land occasionally, and he seldom finds a chance to interject, he seems to get impatient.

Just for the hell of it, he shatters a beer bottle by throwing it at a nearby cluster of boulders. Two women complain, scolding him that that’s dangerous, and he needs to go clean that shit up. Flake waves them off dramatically with a rude scoff. Knolli interjects at this point, saying firmly, “Flake, you need to cool your head and go on a fucking walk, man. Tone it down.”

I don’t like witnessing any of this, really. I prefer Flake when he’s sober, but honestly, when hanging out with the Feeling B “crew”, that seems unfortunately rare.

Flake snaps back while (drunkenly) rising to his feet, “Maybe I will! Seagulls make better company, anyways. They don’t ask you to clean up after yourself, or tell you to go on walks. All they do is shit, eat fish, and caw!”

“Only crows and ravens caw, moron,” Knolli replies with weary laughter and exasperation in his voice, as he knows this Flake well—as he should—and is accustomed to it. Flake makes a dismissive grumbling sound at Knolli and power walks away, though he twists his ankle twice, barely able to walk straight on the lumpy sand, which earns him drunken giggling from the others. I watch him go, concerned. I haven’t been drinking much myself; the repugnance of intoxicated Flake took away the appeal.

“Who even gave him a drink in the first place?” one of the girls asks. They start gossiping, as per usual, once again proving to me that I’d rather be elsewhere. I stand, leaving my two empty beer bottles, and start out across the cold sand, the flickering light of the fire following me as I depart. It’s dark now, a deep blackness settled over the sea and the beach. The waves are scary and somehow louder in the night. I can barely see Flake, striding away in a wobbly manner. I increase my pace to catch up.

By the time I’m at his side, he’s calmed down, and now only walks slowly along the hard sand made wet and compact by the tide. He peeks at me, but only momentarily. He looks back out towards the water, watching it move continuously, listening to its song. The rushing of waves is pretty soothing. I’m sure it’s calming him down a bit. It always calms me, at least.

“I like you better sober,” I decide to say, truthfully, “Though I always like you. It’s just… You tend to dial it up.”

Flake is silent. We continue walking together, my hands now pushed deep into the pockets of my leather jacket—it’s cold here at night. My hands are icy. The hesitation worries me. I hope that wasn’t an offensive thing to say.

“I don’t like me sober,” Flake mumbles eventually, voice heavy with obvious drunkenness, “So I’m relieved one of us does.”

His voice is flat and dry. I look at him with concern, not quite sure how to approach this. I contemplate what to say next. I try not to withhold truth or spin lies to maintain appearances. I honestly hate that façade most people fabricate. I want to be a genuine person, but to a degree where it’s only helpful for myself, and for the people in my life. I don’t want to put myself out like that, making myself vulnerable, without being sure that it’ll result in something good. I let out a deep breath, and decide to be honest. I watch straight ahead as I speak, stomach tight with warmth and equal nervousness.

“You’re witty, and—and funny, and very likeable as a person when you’re not drunk. I enjoy being around you. When you’re drunk… You become too much. Like… You’re trying to become a person you’re not meant to be. I get that it’s pressure, maybe from yourself or from the others, but… You’re charming the way you are. No need to make yourself meet nonexistent expectation.”

Flake and I have slowed to a stop during this. We now stand together, caught between a large cluster of boulders covered in algae and barnacles, and the softly crashing waves. Flake pulls lightly at his earlobe, fiddling with his earring, and then huffs.

“Uh, I guess. I just don’t want to be the loser anymore.”

“You’re not,” I insist genuinely, earning his gaze. I see the tight frown on his face, and I want to make it evolve into a smile. So, I continue with an encouraging smile of my own, my voice gentler, “People like you. They’re your friends, aren’t they? They want to hang out with you, just not when you’re an asshole. That doesn’t make you a loser. You’re only a loser if you convince yourself that.”

Past his shoulder, I see the fire and the group in the distance. We’re so far away, we’re bathed in the darkness of the night, totally unseen and unheard. He watches me for a moment. He nods a little, continuing to fidget with his earring. His lips are pursed, and his eyes are downcast. I watch him, hoping that what I said struck a chord somewhere in there. I want him to know I care. Flake exhales, takes in a deep breath, and then speaks.

“Um, did you mean what you said? About me… And, well, a-all of that,” he mumbles, voice a bit sluggish still due to his drinking. He drops his fingers from his ear to instead cross his arms, his sweater hanging loosely from his lean forearms, “I hate when people tell me things if only to m—make me feel better. It’s so… Fake.”

“I meant it,” I promise, reaching out to touch his bicep. He searches my face, his eyes, once again, bearing that shy look, that look which is almost yearning in a way. Based on the fact he glances over his shoulder, I can tell he’s about to do something. Or say something. Face and stomach hot, I wait, watching him. He meets my eyes—at least, as much as he can in the blackness. He speaks quietly, slurring. His tongue trips up multiple times.

“I wanted to ask—why did—did you k-kiss me? Before, I mean.”

I smile faintly. I was expecting this question eventually, so it doesn’t come as a shock. I scratch the back of my neck, laughing softly, and look at him with a weak smile.

“Because I wanted to. I… I want to even now.”

Flake’s head recoils at that. He looks at me with bewilderment, though his intoxication makes his mouth twist awkwardly and his eyebrows do a weird flex, and then rolling motion. Like he can’t decide on an expression. It has me smiling. I feel really bold and confident now, for some reason. Maybe because Flake is drunk. I don’t feel intimidated by him.

He looks extremely flustered. He brings his hand up to rub the back of his neck and then bursts out a shy, adorable giggle. He sucks in a sharp breath, his lips making a wet sound that obviously embarrasses him considering he then scrubs them off with his fingers. I just watch with a grin. He’s so dorky and cute. He speaks shakily.

“Come on, Richard! You have to explain. Why would you want to kiss me? I mean… Are you gay?”

I should have seen that one coming. I’ve never really thought about it. Men are hot. Women are hot. I’ve fucked both. The experiences were vastly different in some ways, very similar in others. And yet, they were equally fun. I just tend to have more confidence around women since I’m less intimidated by them. I am attracted to women more often than the opposite side of the spectrum, regardless.

So, after a moment of deliberation, I simply shrug and say, “Just a bit, maybe? I don’t know. I prefer women. But… Some guys are special. ”

“Special,” Flake bursts out with a laugh, shaking his head, a broad grin on his face. It shows his wonky teeth and lightens up his eyes, though I can’t see them that well in this lighting, but I can see enough. I’m stupidly swooning, even now.

“Yes, definitely,” I press, finding myself step closer, close enough that the concept of personal space has been violated. His face weakens and he looks into my eyes unashamedly. I reach out with both hands to stroke them down over his bony shoulders, to his biceps. He shudders—I can actually feel it. Okay, maybe the responsiveness that he shows due to intoxication is the best aspect of his drinking habits. I can’t repress my emboldened smile, searching his shy, wary face.

“I think you’re great, really. I find you really… I don’t know. Attractive. I mean, you have a beautiful smile. And, well… I think the dorky aspects of you are also attractive in their own way. You’re a weirdo, but you own that. Don’t hit me over this, but—I also think you’re really cute.”

I realize I’m rambling, my monologue slipping further and further from me, but I catch myself before it loses control. I shut my mouth, and search his face. He is smiling shyly. He ducks his head to hide his expression. Aw, fuck, that’s adorable. He shakes his head and makes a flustered noise, obviously very overwhelmed. I step closer, close enough to wrap my arms around him and pull him closer. Flake freezes.

“Richard,” he stammers, “I—I’m not sure what to say, or do.”

“Hug me back, idiot,” I laugh, and then pause, thoughtfully adding, “If you want to. Do you want me to back off?”

“Mngh, no,” he mumbles, and proceeds to wind his arms around me, pulling me close—a bit hard, actually, but I chalk it up to unintentional roughness derived from his drunkenness. I exhale heavily with relief, and joy. I hold him tightly, and turn my head to rest my cheek against his shoulder—but I just barely reach it, he’s so tall. I clear my throat and speak softly.

“If all this is making you uncomfortable, tell me. I don’t want to, uh, scare you off.”

“I would have pushed you and ran already if—if that was the c-case,” Flake mutters. He’s stuttering a lot. He seems nervous. His hands are clutching at my back. He’s so tall—but it suits him, and it’s honestly attractive, even if he tries to make himself smaller at times. Sometimes, I really wonder why he still has trouble finding women. Sure, he’s had a couple girlfriends here and there, but I mean women who _want_ him, in general. But this thought has my mind jolting over to the opposite side. Men.

Paul. Does Paul want him? Or did he already have him? I pause, and then begin to pull away. Flake does the same. I reach up to push my hair back, wildly disheveled from the wind. I meet his eyes. He’s still making an embarrassed expression. I guess I’ve done a good job of throwing him off.

“Flake,” I speak up, voice calm and collected, “I wanted to ask you something…”

He scratches at his brow and nods, prompting me. I steel myself, heat rising to my face.

“Are… You gay? I mean, are you ever into men? I know you’re into women, too, but…”

I trail off, nervous. He gives one big shrug.

“I guess. I’m like you, maybe. Just… Both. But it’s rare for me to find a guy _attractive._ ”

“Yeah, same,” I say, smiling weakly, “Well, good to know.”

_Do you find me attractive?_

I close my eyes, willing away this childish question, and then gather the means to ask a more important one. I decide to just blurt it out, but I’m unable to meet his eyes. I stare out towards the fire past his shoulder.

“Are you like that with Paul? I mean, I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors, and well, I heard that someone saw you two, uh, kissing. And I don’t know. You live together. And you have great chemistry.”

I’m nervously rambling once more. I shut up. He releases a deep exhale, which has me looking over to meet his eyes again. He’s making that pinched face—knitted brow, firmly pressed lips, eyes narrowing in frustrated contemplation. He forcefully blows out air from his frowning lips, making them ripple, and then snorts. He shakes his head. I wait.

“I mean… Is that important?” he mumbles, scratching at his head. My stomach sinks. He shrugs again, continuing with a defensive slur in his voice.

“What does it matter? I just—I’m not sure I want you to know, Richard. How do I know you won’t just confirm everyone’s suspicions?”

“What—so it’s true?” I say, voice shaky. I want to control myself, my emotions, but now that my worries were more or less confirmed, I feel like I’m slowly breaking apart. My hands are shaking. I swallow hard and continue, my cheeks hot and chest tight, searching in his reluctant eyes, “Why would I just share that with people? I fucking _hate_ people who gossip, Flake. I hate that. It’s so fucking low.”

This seems to convince him. He nods in agreement. He recrosses his arms and exhales heavily again. He looks down at his feet. He curls his toes into the wet sand and huffs.

“Yeah. Paul and I… We have messed around. Uh. He k—kind of made me realize I am sort of… Into g—gu— _guys._ Ugh, shit. Can’t f-fucking talk.”

“It’s… Okay,” I whisper, voice tight. I shove my hands into my pockets, clenching them into fists. Get a grip, idiot. Get a grip. What were you expecting?

Flake sighs and continues.

“After he divorced Nikki, it became, uh… Common. And then moving in together…”

He pauses. I feel gross and uncomfortable, hearing this, but I also want to know. He shrugs again.

“It lasted a while. But then we stopped. I don’t know. I guess he got bored of me. So, it’s whatever. We’re not dating or anything. He’s just, _him._ I don’t have feelings for that idiot, but I just wonder what I did, you know?”

He peeks up at me again, finally. I nod a little. I understand… It must have hurt. Hearing this reassures me a bit, though I do feel for him. I can’t help but be relieved he isn’t already taken by Paul. Flake speaks softer now, searching my tense face.

“So… It’s just different with Paul. We used to fool around, but that’s _it_. And, uh… I think you’re cute, too, by the way. I mean, duh. You’re really handsome.”

This immediately lightens my mood. I blink widely, and then grin—I don’t hear that often, honestly. While people have pointed out that girls gossip about me in such a way, I’m seldom told that to my face. Flake returns the broad smile, and adds, “And I like when you smile! Makes me feel better about my teeth.”

I pause, and then burst out a laugh.

“Way to build a guy up and then knock him back down!”

“I meant that in a good way!” Flake protests with an obvious slur to his words, reaching out to lightly punch me on the bicep, while I blush heavily and giggle, a bit nervously. Even if he meant it as a joke, it still stung just a little, considering I am actually self-conscious about my teeth. But he’s right.

“Solidarity in having bad teeth?” I muse, which has him nodding insistently.

“Even the pretty boys have them,” he adds. I laugh again. He chuckles, face bright and amused, dimples showing and eyes lighting up. It has me staring, my own grin softening to a tender smile. He looks away towards the dark water, clearing his throat. He rubs at his nose with two pinkened fingers and sighs.

“So…” he begins. My heart is eager and jittery, my stomach twisting. I flick my tongue between my lips and reach out to boldly take his hand. He freezes, and looks at me. Cupping it in both of mine, I bring it up to breathe over his fingers.

“Looks cold,” I murmur, peeking up at him past my hair. I rub his fingers with my hands, kneading. He just stares at me, eyebrows raised and eyes wide. He blushes, head ducking and lips pressing together—cute.

“You know, I—” I continue, voice caught, feeling bold and scared simultaneously. He looks at me with curiosity in his bashful eyes. I continue holding his hand, and step closer, close enough I can smell the alcohol on his breath. He searches my face. I smile at him weakly, bringing our hands down. I thread our fingers together. He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing, big, blue eyes wide and searching.

“I want to try again,” I say, “Our last kiss was clumsy on my part… I should’ve approached it with more tact. Can I kiss you again? Or is that too bold of me to ask now?”

“I think the issue of being ‘bold’ doesn’t apply anymore,” Flake mumbles, glancing away, only to shakily look at me again, “You’ve asked bolder things already.”

I don’t say anything, I just wait for consent, giving him a simple smile. He huffs, bites his bottom lip, and then nods.

“Sorry for being a bit drunk… Um, it’s just—before I’ve been told I could do better, so I imagine I won’t be any better when I’m like th—this,” he mumbles, shrugging weakly, narrowing his eyes. I immediately conclude that that was Paul. Who else would say something so cruel, with the misguided notion that it’s helpful?

“Then let’s make it good,” I reply, hoping to reassure him, clutching his hand tighter. He pauses, and then grins bashfully, looking too goddamn adorable for his own good. He licks his lips and nods again. My heart is fluttering crazily, and my stomach is tight and tingly. I feel so stupidly excited and _happy_ to be doing this with him. I feel like we seldom have privacy in this manner. He’s always running around doing things, or hanging out with Paul or Aljoscha. I’m just glad that we have this moment.

Squeezing his long, slim fingers between mine, I give him a coy grin. Emboldened, I begin to lean in, while he bends his back just a bit to cross the distance, making it easier on me. Our lips clumsily clash, teeth clicking, his nose stabbing my cheek. I giggle into it and Flake grunts in shock. Too much enthusiasm—have to take it slower next time. But this is fine. In fact, sensing that desire in him invigorates me and turns me on even more. His lips are wet and warm. And _better_ this time around. When sober, I can appreciate it so much more. I kiss him confidently. Our mouths press together, pushing and overlapping, never withdrawing, never pulling back from fear. He tastes like alcohol. My face and body is extremely hot, bursting with a warmth from kissing him like this. It’s already so much better than last time.

I bring my free hand up to cradle the side of his face, palm on his jaw, thumb on his cheek, fingers over his ear. He falters at this, lips freezing, though I continue kissing him, letting my tongue peek out to taste the seam of his soft lips. He shudders. Slowly, shyly he returns it. A deeper, more controlled mashing of our mouths, tongues meeting bashfully in the middle. I angle my head to deepen it, letting him lick into my mouth, only to kiss him back just as hard. Our lips are intertwined completely, moving together again and again, without hesitance or control. It’s wet and indulgent and sexy. His breathing is hard and hot against my face, exhaled through his nose. Finally, after waiting for him to gather the confidence, his one free hand meets my body; he slides it under my leather jacket, and even under my black shirt below. His hand is fucking freezing!

I jump away, yelping, and then burst out a sharp laugh. He looks at me in shock, glasses slightly askew atop his proud nose, mouth area completely flushed and wet. I giggle and collapse forward into him, feeling a bit _drunk_ off that kiss now.

“Your hand is so cold, Flake,” I explain, panting, pulling back to look at him and his nervously smiling face, “Here—”

I don’t want it to stop there, just because of that little hiccup. I take him by the wrists, and guide both hands down. Working them up under my shirt, I lead them, letting them slide up along my sides. I shudder violently—they are cold, but now I expected it. He whimpers—he actually fucking whimpers. I blink up at him, surprised by that noise. He looks incredibly awed and flustered at the same time. Like it’s a shock to him that he’s touching me like this.

“So warm,” he whispers, stepping closer, if only to run the expanse of his broad hands around to my back. My belly is bubbling and bursting with heat, a shot of blood coursing right down into my dick. I realize, now, that I would do literally anything for him—sexually, at least. If he wanted to, I’d let him push me to my knees and fuck my mouth, right out in the open like this.

“Fuck, I shouldn’t be so into you,” I murmur, reaching out to cup his cute face and draw him back in. Flake hesitates, confused by that statement perhaps, but then hunches his back to kiss me once more. Our mouths crush together, and I clutch at him. He’s huffing noisily through his nose, and making the tiniest sounds against my lips, so flustered and overwhelmed in nature. It’s very hot to me. I love when my partner loses control of their voice, the censor on their tongue. Like they don’t even realize they’re doing it.

I realize I will get ahead of myself if we don’t stop. But I find it hard to detach, to resist this temptation. With our lips passionately overlapping, his hands stroking shakily over the bare skin of back and sides, all I can think about is how I want to kiss more than just his mouth. I want to kiss his cheeks, his brow, his ears, his neck, his bony little shoulders. The moles on his chest and belly which I’ve been blessed to see before. I want to tie him down so he can’t run, and bathe his body in love and worship until he accepts that he’s just as handsome and good-looking as anyone else. That he’s attractive, sexy, and _wanted_ —conventional opinion be damned.

It seems the universe agrees that I should definitely back off: we hear laughter and approaching conversation. It has us immediately breaking apart, his hands slipping out from under my shirt. I step away, fixing my shirt, while he scrubs at his mouth. We look at each other, briefly—Flake is completely disheveled; his face is flushed and his glasses are askew, hair messy. He gives me a little nod, which is reassuring. I smile, and then glance over to see Paul, Knolli, and a woman approaching. It’s so dark, I can barely see them at all. I hear them more than I see them.

“Ay!” Paul calls out, while I wipe off my face with a hand and take in a shuddering breath. I reach down to adjust my erection in my jeans, if only to make it less noticeable, while Paul jogs up. He looks between us, coming to a stop, and then grins a bit apologetically.

“Oops. Sorry,” he says with a laugh. “Should’ve let you be.”

Then, the other two catch up. I’m burning in the face just from Paul figuring it out so easily, even in this low light. Paul looks up at Flake with a cocky little smirk and narrowed eyes. Flake frowns at him. He fixes his glasses, and then crosses his arms across his chest, tucking his hands under his armpits for warmth. Paul doesn’t say anything, but I figure their entire exchange already happened without words.

“We’re gonna start moving to the campsite. Beach is getting too cold,” Knolli says, bringing an arm around the woman beside him. “Had a couple slaves go out to grab some food, too.”

“Then let’s get going!” I exclaim, a bit breathless still, stepping away from Flake to pat Knolli on the shoulder, throwing a glance towards Paul. I begin towards the dying fire in the distance, shoving my hands into my jacket pockets. The others start walking with me. The wet sand breaks apart under our feet. The tide rushes in, lapping at our shoes, only to retreat once again.

As Paul teases a defensive Flake, which easily evolves into some debate that I don’t really care to tune into, I focus on the melody of the gently crashing waves. The heat of Flake still tingles on my mouth, and I can almost feel his roughened hands stroking over my sides and back. The jolt of my nerves, when stroked by callouses made by dedication to music. The cold, bitter skin of those hands that gradually becomes warmer, more welcome. The nervous twitching of his fingers, as if they weren’t sure if they were allowed to explore further, or if they should flee. I smile to myself in the darkness, pleased with this outcome—it became _much_ more than I hoped for. I wanted Flake to simply look at me, to acknowledge me and talk to me, but we ended up having a much more meaningful conversation than I initially had in mind. And the _kissing_ —he was definitely better than he gave himself credit for.

I’m startled when an arm winds around my shoulders, and a body is pressed against me. I look over to see Paul, unsurprised by who this arm belongs to. The other three are walking a couple paces behind us. Flake is listening to Knolli talk about some bullshit—and Paul just looks at me. He waggles his eyebrows. The shittiest little knowing smirk grows on his boyish face. His bleached hair is made wild around his head, whipped from the wind.

“Come over tomorrow,” he says this in such a friendly tone of voice, it’s misleading. I only know there’s ulterior motive because I know _him._ He continues, lowering his voice with a distinct hint of _Paul_ smugness, “I’ll be out the door around twenty. 198 centimeters of awkward and cute won’t be.”

I groan loudly in disgust. He laughs. He gives me a thumbs up, and then detaches from me just as we finally reach the fire, rejoining the rest of humanity and effectively shattering that contentment I had been in, a kind of euphoria after sharing such an intimate moment with Flake. Time to pretend again. And to wait until tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> babypaulchen.tumblr.com


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